Leaving home has become a milestone we associate with success. But for a generation balancing ambition, affordability, and family responsibility, adulthood is not as simple as having a place of your own.
I’m 22 years old and still live with my parents. And some days, that fact alone makes me question whether I’m where I’m supposed to be.
As a recent journalism graduate, I've always carried ambitions that felt too big to fit within the walls of my childhood bedroom. I imagined myself chasing leads through a teeming city with an iced latte in hand, or even travelling the world to work directly with underprivileged communities, writing stories that expose injustice and push for change.
Yet despite reaching many of the goals I set for myself over the last four years—from graduating university to pursuing the creative work I’ve always dreamed of doing—I still find myself caught between the life I have built and the life I thought I’d have by this age. The version of “success” I’ve been conditioned to chase (more on that later) still feels just out of reach.
Somewhere along the way, I’ve begun to question why moving out has become synonymous with success—as if having a place of my own could prove that I had “finally made it” (if I even knew what that meant).
Turns out, I’m not the only one feeling this way.
Many young adults are discovering that moving out on their own—let alone buying a home in their 20s—is becoming increasingly out of reach in today’s economy.
Case in point: A record 25.2 million U.S. adults under 35 lived with their parents in 2025, and of that, 70% are employed 25- to 34-year-olds. These numbers reflect a reality much more complicated than simply choosing independence over dependence.
If having a job is no longer enough to leave home, why do we still treat moving out as proof of success?
"If having a job is no longer enough to leave home, why do we still treat moving out as proof of success?"
While traditional milestones like marriage, children, and owning a home are no longer the default markers of adulthood, their timelines have shifted. In 2024, for example, about 40% of U.S. women aged 30 to 34 had not yet had children, according to Census Bureau data.
For many young, ambitious women, success looks like the dream career, an apartment in the big city, a carefully curated personal brand, and the illusion of thriving completely on their own.
It is a fantasy we have seen on screen for decades—think of Jenna Rink in 13 Going on 30 with her gorgeous Manhattan apartment, covetable career as a magazine editor, and wardrobe that would make any preteen drool with envy. She was living proof that she had grown into the woman she’d always imagined. But eventually, Jenna finds herself longing for her 13-year-old self again, realizing the life she'd built didn't actually reflect who she wanted to be.
Even Jo March in Greta Gerwig's Little Women experiences a similar internal conflict. She famously declares she'd "rather be a free spinster," turns down Laurie's proposal, and moves to New York to sell her stories—yet by the end of the film, she's back in Concord, running a school out of the house her aunt left her, and surrounded again by her family and the home she once needed distance from to become herself.
Nowadays, that “independent woman” fantasy appears on our social media feeds. Single women in their 20s and 30s vlog about solo nights in their perfectly curated apartments, ordering expensive takeout, getting ready to walk to Pilates, having friends over for Gigi Hadid pasta and a rom-com, taking everything showers, and seemingly living a carefree, financially free life that makes the rest of us wonder what we're doing wrong.
This modern idea of success feels increasingly out of reach for people like me. So what does “making it” really look like for Gen Z and millennials still sleeping in their childhood bedroom?
Living at home is often perceived as a sign that you’re not trying hard enough, yet many employed adults still find independent living financially out of reach.
In the U.S., the median home now lists for $430,000—34.4% more than in 2019—and rent isn't much better, up 17.9% to a median of $1,673, according to Realtor.com. So maybe the issue is not a lack of avidity. Maybe it's just gotten a lot harder to afford the independence we were promised by a certain age.
No wonder young people are feeling frustrated. We were taught to believe that if we worked hard in school and landed a decent-paying full-time job, we were guaranteed a sense of stability.
But for many, staying at home isn’t just about affordability; it’s a cultural decision, too.
As a South Asian woman born and raised in the West, I have always felt driven to build a career for myself and make the most of the education my family has worked so hard to provide. And in many cultures, adulthood isn't defined by leaving home, but by staying connected to family until one enters a new chapter of life—often marked by marriage.
For many women, a meaningful life is chosen through marriage, starting a family, and shared responsibility, even in a culture that often pushes a single narrative: earn your own money, establish yourself, and become fully independent before allowing a man to join the picture.
"We have mistaken independence for isolation, believing adulthood is only legitimate when it is performed alone."
We have mistaken independence for isolation, believing adulthood is only legitimate when it is performed alone—even though young adults are supporting families and building professional journeys from homes they’ve never left.
The line between the “dependent child” and the “independent adult” is not always as clear as it seems. This distinction is especially visible in immigrant families, where remaining at home is not a sign of a lack of progression, but a different understanding of responsibility altogether. It means contributing financially, caring for family members, and carrying obligations that often go unseen. It's the pressure of being a "good daughter," of giving back to the people who sacrificed everything to give you options they never had.
But that doesn't erase the very real reasons some people do choose to leave. Beyond the roles we're expected to fill, a lot of young adults are still figuring out who they are outside of the people and places that raised them. For some, moving out was never really about proving they can pay their own rent. It's about getting enough distance to become someone who isn't just "so-and-so's daughter" or "so-and-so's kid.” And sometimes it’s to get distance from a toxic household, outgrow the version of themselves tied to your hometown, or simply figure out who they are beyond the perceptions of those who have known them.
Somewhere along the way, we have begun confusing independence with success. We view support systems as a sign of failure rather than recognizing them as part of building stability.
And through it all, my thoughts about moving out have changed. I’m learning that independence does not have to mean doing everything alone, or that a life becomes more meaningful simply because it is lived somewhere else. I can still imagine myself building a career. But I no longer see leaving home as the moment it finally begins.
For now, something is holding me here: the smell of masala from a home-cooked meal drifting through the house, the chaos of my mother calling from upstairs to close the closet doors, and my father asking to make another lap around the neighborhood on our after-dinner walk. Maybe one day those walks will look different, and maybe there will be a city waiting outside my front door instead.
But I don’t feel the need to rush toward that version of my life just to prove I’ve arrived somewhere.
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